


E Venne un Uomo

by eleanorb



Category: Hellblazer, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 07:05:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleanorb/pseuds/eleanorb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not a guardian angel but he does have a trenchcoat</p>
            </blockquote>





	E Venne un Uomo

He can tell it’s over even before he goes up to the flat. The air’s thick with it, bitter and cloying at the same time. An almost theatrical tendril of gray smoke snakes down the stairs. The bastard with the brolly’s going to be right pissed off. John was supposed to be there before it started. He was supposed to stop it happening at all. Though how he was going to do that, short of a house fire or a strategically lobbed smoke bomb, was anyone’s guess.

Story of his life, right. 

The card under the bell reads Granville & Trevor, not that it’s much use now, the door hangs off its hinges, blown outwards and singed round the edges. Open invitation to squatters, burglars and Scousers.

Fucking public school wankers! It’s a lark to them, Ouija boards, séances, games granny used to play. They think they’re fucking bulletproof, that mummy, or daddy or big brother will protect them from the consequences, pat them on the head and drop them into a career in the Civil Service and a corner office with a view of the birds on their way to Oasis. 

John hesitates on the step, angry. He’s walked away from much better paying jobs than this one but, a favour’s a favour and he really likes the idea that a certain someone will owe him one. 

He crosses the threshold.

In the hall, the walls are wet, smeared red, the abattoir smell overpowering. It’s ice cold.

Over the picture rail there are names written in scripts that crawl. Despite everything he’s seen, his stomach turns over a little, bile rising. There’s power, real tangible power, in names, especially the ones that have been used here. Old names, names that slide over the tongue, slip through the teeth, bleed across the lips. 

Stupid cunts!

The room at the top of the stairs is far worse than the hall, a battlefield of torn clothing and brittle broken bones. The circle’s an inch deep in blood; incense holders spill their ashes in dark plumes. It stinks of brimstone and death. 

The moon peers through the skylight; a coy silver voyeur, then turns away to hide behind a passing cloud. The room grows darker. He flicks the switch next to the door. It sparks but nothing happens which, given the stench in the room is probably a blessing. His foot slips on something oily and he decides it’s better not to look down.

If you counted the limbs and body parts, and John’s sure someone will have to later, there are two, or possibly three, men scattered across the floor like offal in a butcher’s window. A pair of legs spread wide to expose ravaged genitals lean drunkenly against the far wall. 

And over against the pillar, last man standing. Except he's not; the dark haired man is slumped on the floor; white hands clutching the book resting on his knees as if it’s the last lifebelt on the Titanic. The tremor that runs through his body is evident even from the doorway.

John steps across an arc of chalk, the holes in the veil closing with a slithering suction behind him. He concentrates a little more and a small dark pit in the centre of the room snaps closed with a vitreous click. 

The man on the floor looks up, head rolling back, eyes unfocussed - cocaine, ergot and wolfsbane are a nasty combination. His long black hair drips blood onto his white shirt.

"Was it real?" he asks. His eyes shutter then open again. "Did we…?"

Frankly, John would rather walk away; have a smoke, a beer, a shag if he’s lucky. Leave him to it, to whatever's still out there in the wilds of Hammersmith. That's what you get for messing with things you don't understand, or even believe in. And yeah, that’s personal experience talking. John’s always prepared to acknowledge and ignore his own hypocrisy. 

But, barely using the sight, he can see this man is special. His aura shines opalescent even through the sluggish confusion of the drugs. John doubts he could have died tonight even if he’d taken a razor to his wrists or a shotgun to his head. The fickle forces of the universe have something planned for him, unlucky bastard. 

Someone’s protecting him and it’s not just a concerned older sibling.

He leans down and takes the book, his fingers catching in blood that's neither his nor that of the man on the floor, Sherlock Holmes.

"No mate," he reassures, "You're just having a fucking bad trip."

Eyes the colour of sea washed glass focus just for a moment. “Really?” before John hits him with a cosh and drags him to the adjoining room.

“Would I lie to you?” John smiles, tight and sardonic, and lights a Silk Cut. 

Later, after he’s blinded the Holmes boy to the other world, he lights another and blows a ring of smoke above his head; time to go. There’s still whatever they raised to be dealt with and John’s sure that won’t be a walk in the park, just once it’d be nice if it was, but life’s not like that, is it?

He meets Mycroft Holmes on the way down. The tip of an umbrella bars his way and he resists the urge to kick it off the stair. Who does the fat fucker think he is?

“The book’s next to the sink. Make sure one of your minions burns it and scatters the ashes. Sooner rather than later.” He moves a foot to the next tread.

“My brother?” Mycroft asks. There’s more concern in his voice than John expected.

“Needs spanking and sending to bed without his tea.” He slouches and deliberately exaggerates his working class accent. “Isn’t that what you toffs do?”

“What we do,” Mycroft’s eyes harden, “Mr Constantine, is look after our own. Something you should perhaps consider yourself.”

As he steps out into the dirty London dawn it starts to drizzle.


End file.
